


Always Blind

by Fear_And_Lothering_In_Las_Thedas



Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age II, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-07-22
Updated: 2017-07-22
Packaged: 2018-12-05 14:37:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,587
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11580096
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fear_And_Lothering_In_Las_Thedas/pseuds/Fear_And_Lothering_In_Las_Thedas
Summary: Hawke comes to Skyhold, but she's a changed woman. Varric can't tell why everything about her seems off.





	Always Blind

 

After just a month of renovations, Josephine opened the tavern at Skyhold, naming it the Herald’s Rest. The first night, she let the soldiers who fought at Haven drink free--a wise move for morale, if not for the Inquisition coffers, what with the Chargers around. The newly proclaimed Inquisitor was away on business, which was a shame, but one thing the Inquisition was never short on was heroes. And where there were heroes, there were stories. 

Varric listened more than he drank or talked that night. He was in the market for some new inspiration, and nothing loosened people's’ tongues like free ale. 

When he finally got back to his dark, little room above the forge sometime after midnight, he had difficulty finding a lamp. He would have sworn he’d left one on the table near his door, but a blind, cautious sweep of his hand met only with air. He tried again, this time more slowly, then swore under his breath.

There was a responding chuckle. He froze, his gaze adjusting to the dark. Narrowing his eyes, he scanned the room, his brow furrowed, until he saw a glittering pair of eyes somewhere near his desk. There was a shadow seated on his chair, crossing its legs. 

He grit his teeth, cursing himself for feeling safe enough to leave Bianca by his bed. He tried to quickly reconcile the list of people who wanted to kill him with a list of people who would actually scale a mountain to do so. Luckily, most of the Guild considered climbing down to Lowtown an arduous journey, which limited the options.

“Hello, Varric,” the shadow murmured. The tension left his body. He recognized the voice immediately, though it sounded quieter than usual. To his utter lack of surprise, a flame appeared a second later, dancing in her open palm, softly illuminating the room.

“Hawke,” he replied. She watched him with dancing eyes. The gentle smirk on her face widened at she looked over him. 

“You look well,” she said, her voice still low and bordering on laughter. He wasn’t sure why, but there felt something off about her tone. He found himself studying her. Was she sick? Drunk, maybe? No, it didn’t seem like it. She just sounded... strange.

It wasn’t the hint of humor in her voice. Hawke always sounded half-amused, whether the situation called for it or not. Even when she’d challenged the Arishok, or stood over Anders outside the smoking ruins of the chantry, she’d sounded more like someone nearing the end of a lengthy joke than a fearsome warrior. Varric found it fascinating. Sometimes he got the feeling that he’d followed her around Kirkwall for seven years just to see if there was a punchline. 

“You’ve seen better days,” he told her in return, and she threw back her head to laugh. 

He wasn’t lying.  Her black hair was long and straggly, half of it tied back from her face and the rest just skimming her shoulders. It looked like it hadn’t been washed in weeks. Her armor--the same armor she’d worn when she’d fled the city, he noticed--hadn’t been cleaned or cared for. He suspected that the dark circles around her bright, blue eyes were not just an effect of the light; they matched the new, thin lines near her mouth and the gaunt of her cheeks too well to be a coincidence. 

But she was still Hawke. And Maker, she looked magnificent. 

“So I’m guessing you got my letter,” he said, clearing his throat. 

“I did,” she confirmed. She leaned back in the chair, frowning. “So. Coryheus.”

“Corypheus,” he agreed.

She stood, dousing the flame in her hand as she lit the three lamps in the room with a gesture. He could see her better now, but her face looked just as drawn. Before he could think better of it, his eyes began to trace her body. She was thinner now, and that had him worried, but he wasn’t fool enough to think that was the only reason he looked. He finally tore his eyes away from the gentle slope of her hips, his fingers twitching, and busied himself with finding the bottle of whiskey he kept locked in the chest by his bed. “So does you being here mean you've made progress?”

“Not really,” Hawke said, rubbing her neck. “You probably know more than me at this point." She sighed. "You know, Stroud suggested he might have survived, but I never believed it.” She shrugged, tilting her head. “Oh, well, maybe that’s unfair. I thought it could be  _ possible _ , but more like ‘ _ he’ll reappear in a thousand years to terrorize the countryside’  _ alive, not like  _ ‘he’s going to show up in a matter of months with a fucking dragon at his side _ ’ alive.”

Varric popped back up, whiskey in hand. “Aha. So you heard about the dragon.”

“Of course I heard about the dragon,” Hawke replied. “Not the fun kind, though, is it?” Varric gave her a look as he wiggled the cork out of the bottle with his teeth, and she waved her hand at him. “Yes, there  _ are _ ,” she said, answering his unspoken accusation. “Well, anyway. You should be pleased. Stroud’s willing to meet your Inquisitor, for some reason. I swear, he’s so paranoid these days, it’s harder to get a meeting with him than the Empress, so  _ you’re welcome _ in advance.”

“Thank you,” Varric said obediently, taking a deep swig of whiskey. He shuddered, then took another. He made to pass it to her, and she recoiled slightly, giving it a panicked look, before shaking her head.

“No, keep it,” Hawke said, the strange tone returning to her voice.  

He blinked, surprised. It wasn’t like Miriam Hawke to refuse a drink.

“Suit yourself,” he said, taking another deep swig. He coughed a little, then grimaced, his head spinning a little. A deep tiredness seeped into his bones. He’d almost forgot how late it was. “Actually, you’re right. We should get some rest. We can talk about all this shit tomorrow." He jerked his head toward the corner, adding, "You can take the bed. I’m sure someone can find you a room of your own in the morning, but I’ve got my bedroll here in the meantime.”

Hawke’s smirk returned and she gave him a mock-innocent look. “Or we could share,” she said playfully, “Like old times.”

“Old  _ time _ ,” he corrected her, before he could stop himself. He winced.  _ Had he really said that?  _ “And no. Not the best idea.” Drinking more apparently fell under the same category, he decided, putting the cork in the bottle. He placed it back in the chest, then rummaged around, picking a fresh shirt of his and tossing it to her. She caught it. He pulled out some blankets and his bedroll. 

Hawke pouted. “Bianca stands in my way again,” she said as she began to remove her chest plate with alarming speed. 

Varric kept his reaction to a snort, putting the sheets down on the far side of the room. Fortunately, his tunic could serve as nightclothes. He crawled under the blankets, facing the wall, and tried not to listen to the Champion of Kirkwall as she stripped behind him. He heard her sink into his bed and realized suddenly that she would be spending the night almost naked, in his shirt, in his bed. 

Well, there was an image that would stick with him as long as he stayed at Skyhold. If not longer.

“Ugh,” she moaned, appreciative. “I can’t tell you how good this bed feels.” Varric saw darkness descend upon the room again as she killed the lights. He breathed out, moving to lie on his back and closed his eyes. 

“Hawke?” he asked after a moment, something occurring to him. 

“What is it?” she said, her voice muffled into a pillow.

“I just sent that letter two weeks ago. By foot.” He licked his lips. “And Antiva is way more than two weeks away,” he observed. 

She paused. “So?”

“So you weren’t with Isabela,” he said. She didn’t say anything, and he shifted, looking back toward his bed. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

“No reason to,” she said, but he could hear something guarded in her voice. “It was safer not to. I got your letters, didn’t I?”

“Yeah, but,” he said, trailing off. Suddenly the state of her armor and hair, the way her arms looked bone-thin beneath her gauntlets, was beginning to make sense. “Where were you, the woods?” There was no reply. “What, you were just living in the wild, by yourself?”

Blankets shifted, and when she next spoke her voice was soft but clear. “I had to,” she said. “I--.” She stopped.

“Maker’s breath. You must have been out there for months,” he realized. “Maybe a year.” She was silent again. “Shit, Hawke. That’s… that’s no way to live.”

“It was fine,” Hawke replied. “I survived.”

“Yeah, but…. Well, it must have been lonely.”

He heard her laugh quietly in the darkness, then shift on his bed. “Go to sleep, Varric,” she said, rolling over. 

He didn’t follow her advice immediately. As his eyes slowly adjusted to the darkness, he watched the pile of blankets on his bed rise and fall steadily, a worried feeling in his gut. It took him an hour to finally turn away.

Varric knew it it didn’t take much for him to get suspicious these days, but he couldn’t shake the feeling that something was very wrong. 

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! This piece isn't beta'd so let me know if you find any mistakes.


End file.
